Life wasn’t a continnum of events, although it wore the guise of exactly that. Instead, it was actually a carousel. In infancy, one mounted a galloping pony and started out on a journey during which one assumed that circumstances would change as the expedition continued. But the truth of life was that it was an endless repetition of what one had already experienced . . . round and round and up and down on that pony. And unless one dealt with whatever challenges one was meant to deal with along the route, those challenges appeared again and again in one form or another till the end of one’s days.

A Traitor To Memory, Elizabeth George

How our pasts define our presents, Leach thought now. We’re not even aware that it’s happening, but every time we reach a conclusion, make a judgement, or take a decision, the years of our lives are stacked up behind us: all those dominoes of influence that we don’t begin to acknowledge as part of defining who we are.

A Traitor To Memory, Elizabeth George